Even My Guilt Has Guilt

Mom guilt.

Work guilt.

Wife guilt.

Me guilt.

Guilt guilt.

Guilt comes in many gut-wrenching shapes and sizes. And it’s always lurking and hovering, like a horrible threatening rain cloud on a bright, sunny day.

And I know I don’t suffer alone.

Guilt ruins your day. It gets in the way of productivity. It causes you to obsess over things (mostly) beyond your control.

In a nutshell: guilt sucks.

And yet, here we are, dealing with guilt on a daily basis.

Here’s what my personal guilt looks like:

I had to work late and I missed seeing my little Boo Boo before his bedtime.

Guilt: I chose work over quality snuggle time with my child. I am a horrible mother.

I dropped off a hysterically-crying child at daycare.

Guilt: If I didn’t work, this wouldn’t happen.

When the hubs and I finally get to spend some child-free time together, I sit down on the couch and…fall asleep.

Guilt: I let fatigue get the best of me. I should be stronger than the urge to sleep! Wake up, woman!

Sometimes I just want to spend an hour in a store without my 2-year-old personal shopper in tow.

Guilt: I should want to spend time with my child. I am a selfish person.

It’s finally the weekend and I get to spend time with my Boo Boo! I take him to the grocery store and Target, because we need food and because, well, Target.

Guilt: I’m dragging him on errands when I should be taking him to the park, or doing some Pinteresty kid craft with paper plates, pine cones and paint. (Double Guilt for making fun of those Pinterest mothers. I’m just jealous!)

I want to take a nap.

Guilt.

I just want an hour to speed read the stack of magazines that are piling up on the kitchen counter, begging to be opened.

You guessed it: Guilt!

While I know the guilt isn’t ever going to end any time soon, I’m hoping I will one day be at peace with it.

Because I haven’t won the lottery yet, so I can’t quit my job.

And, let’s be real, I’ll always want to selfishly spend beautiful fall afternoons sipping wine by an outdoor fire. Reading a magazine while shopping online. Right before my nap.

The Mushy Mom Gene

I believe there’s this thing called the Mushy Mom Gene. 

It's the genetic make up where from an early age you can’t wait to be a mother. You start babysitting at nine years old and don’t stop until you graduate college (and even then you might make yourself available to that one family who’s in a bind because their kids are just so.freakin’.cute).

In your twenties, the Mushy Mom Gene means you smile and wave at babies in the grocery store, squeal when a friend tells you she’s preggers (then you rub your own empty womb, try not to be jealous and silently tell yourself, ‘some day!’). Or you see a family in a restaurant with one of those little booster seats attached to the table and – even though the kid is throwing french fries at his father – you think it’s the most adorable thing in the world.

In your thirties the Mushy Mom Gene goes into overdrive if you don’t yet have a baby. You see a toddler in the grocery store whose mother is a total hot mess and you start to think of what it would be like if you took the kid home to live with you. Or the minute you walk into a friend’s house you make a beeline for their baby, stick your nose to its head and inhale deeply.

The Mushy Mom Gene can make you do crazy things.

I was not born with the Mushy Mom Gene.

I was an only child, so I spent quite a bit of time letting my imagination run wild, holding conversations with myself and creating a second life in my basement. I had more Cabbage Patch Dolls than I care to admit (only child = more presents), and they would play a part in my world of make believe. 

I would play school, where I was the teacher and the Cabbies were my students. Or I would play orphanage, and I was the cool house mother (a nicer version of Mrs. Hannigan) that took care of the kids until they were adopted. And in some instances, I was their cool aunt who would take them to the movies or ice cream and then drop them back off at home at the end of the day.

In not one of these scenarios was I their mother. I blame this on the absence of the Mushy Mom Gene.

Just because I wasn’t born with the Mushy Mom Gene, didn’t mean I didn’t want to be a mother. Not gushing over babies can make people think that you don't want children.

It's quite the opposite for me. I LOVE being a mother. I LOVE our son. In fact, I wish we would win the lottery so I could spend all day every day at home with him being his MOTHER.

And now that I’m a mother, I see the Mushy Mom Gene creeping its way into my being. I smile at babies in the grocery store! I want to see pictures of your baby and kids on Facebook! I love sharing stories about baby habits or poop debacles!

Now, to be clear, this doesn’t mean that I automatically love every stranger baby and toddler I encounter.

If your baby has green snot running down its face and is trying to reach her germy hands on me or my cart? I probably don’t love that baby.

If I’m eating at a nice restaurant and it’s 9pm and you have your toddler there WAY past his bedtime and he’s having a meltdown? I probably don’t love that kid, either.*

The Mushy Mom Gene is a powerful thing. It makes you cry at Pampers commercials. Get teary-eyed at pictures of newborns. Wave back at kids who wave at you first. 

Damn you, Mushy Mom Gene!

If I had my Cabbage Patch Dolls right now I’d give them all a big old hug…from their mother.

*NOTE: I think kids can and should go to restaurants! We take Max out with us all the time! Just do it at appropriate times in appropriate places and be respectful of others.

How to survive your first week back at work (with the fewest tears as possible)

I went back to work this past week.

I know.

Throughout my entire time home, I never thought about going back. Mainly because I knew I would obsess over it, and I didn't want it to ruin my time with Max.

And – I will admit – going back wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

Here's some advice that helped me make it through my first week back:

1. Call in an Act of God. For me, it was a blizzard. Timed correctly, Mother Nature can really be on your side. Blizzard 2015 resulted in 1.5 days working at home, which meant extra snuggle time with my little nugget. The distraction you select is up to you: hurricane, flood, swarm of locusts.

2. Let people take you to a welcome-back lunch. Order a cocktail. Or three.

3 Bask in the glory of answering: “How’s the baby?” Gush about anything – and everything – you can about your little bundle of joy until they lose interest (about one minute). Once they move on, quietly wait until the next person welcomes you back and asks the same question, and immediately launch into how smart/cute/amazing your baby is. (Refrain from over-sharing, such as poop color and green eye mucus.)

4. Daily showers! You get to take a shower every day! And wear a bra! In fact, your office probably encourages it.

5. Relish all of the free time you have. That’s right, free time. Yes, you’re at work, but when was the last time you found yourself with a few empty moments where someone wasn’t waiting for you to do, well, everything for them? Pay a bill. Update your Facebook status. Put your head down on your desk and take a nap.

6. Go to the bathroom. Remember all those days you thought your bladder was going to burst because you just couldn’t get to the bathroom, like, ever? Guess what? You now can PEE WHEN YOU HAVE TO, instead of waiting for your mother to visit, or when the baby is napping.

7. Your diaper duty has been cut by 75%. The chances of you having to change that explosive diaper after four days of not pooping are pretty slim. That one time when you had to cut off his onesie? Yeah, someone else is dealing with that.

8. Stalk your baby app. Your childcare provider willingly agreed to update the app each day. Become OCD over every diaper change and feeding. Text questions. Make them regret ever agreeing to use it.

9. Two words: Saturday and Sunday.

10. Post-work snuggles. Remind yourself of that little face that’s going to light up when you walk in the door, and that no one can ever replace you. You’re the Mommy, after all.